I 



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s? 



P O E MS. 



®ttfmn fit Stationm mi. 






POEMS, 



BY 



JOHN GORDON, Esq. 



Les longues ouvrages me font peur 

Loin d 7 epuiser une matiere 

On rien doit prendre que lafleur. 

La Fontaine. 




EDINBURGH 



PRINTED BY JAMES BALLANTYNE AND CO. 

SOLD BY JOHN BUCHANAN, NORTH BRIDGE-STREET, EDINBURGH; 

AND JOHN CAWTHORNE, CATHERINE-STREET, 

STRAND, LONDON. 

1807. 
Price One Shilling. 



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J 



9"*} 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



Out of respect to the Public, as much atten- 
tion has been given to the following Poems as 
the Authors situation could admit. The 
rhyme in the last of them is varied towards the 
end, which may require an apology, if more 
than one be not necessary for so irregular a 
piece. 

11th February, 1807. 



CONTENTS. 



Elegy on Lord Nelson, 

— on the death of Francis, Duke of Bed- 
ford, fi 

on the death of the Princess of Lam- 

balle, murdered at Paris in 1792, 1 1 

on the affecting and premature death 

of the Earl of Sutherland, his 
wife, and a favourite child, ... iq 

on the Pretender, and his burial, ... 22 

on the Earthquake in 1783, that de- 

stroyed so much of Sicily and 
Calabria, 27 



on Theodore, King of Corsica, . . 37 

Bel-s— is to Bin- m , 43 






Vll 



Page. 

Song on the threatened Invasion in 1803, . . 47 

The poor mans mite for his burial, 50 

Ode to Time, 52 

Soliloquy of Louis XVI. King of France, on 
the night previous to his execution, the 

20th of January, 1793, 62 

The universal Deluge, 71 

Epitaph on Philip II. King of Spain, 79 

— on the great Earl of Chatham, .... 80 

on the great Marquis of Montrose, . 81 

on the young Duke of Ancaster, who 

died in 1779, in his twenty-third 

year, 82 

The Election Dinner, part 1 84 

— part II 97 






To mother earth, and narrow vaults below, 
Down to the grave the race of man must go : 
The splendid prince, from regal pomp and state, 
Must here depart, the victim of his fate ; 
The haughty lord must for his son make room, 
And share the lonely monumental tomb ; 
The gallant victor of the conquered plain, 
Must lie extended like the cottage swain ; 
Human distinctions with the dead are laid, 
Moulder with nothing, as the dust are made. 



ELEGIES. 



ON 



LORD NELSON'S 



LYING IN STATE IN 



GREENWICH HOSPITAL. 



Ah, Nelson ! victor in the hour of death, 

Why not in the briny restless ocean 

Laid, to sleep for ever on the shelly bottom 

Of the great abyss ; beneath the tide, 

Where oft thy glory shone, a noble grave 

And bed of the fearless sailor ? 

No ; you lie in little and ignoble state, 



4 

Close by the oozy stillness of a river, 
Stared and gazed at by the multitude ; 
They force their way to view the last 
Remains of him, who once could dart 
His lightning on the foe. 

How great and simple if in winding-sheet, 
Thy body sunk into the deep recess 
Of the unbounded sea, thy chosen and 
Triumphal place of residence, without the 
Witness of a curious eye, or babbling tongue, 
To sully thy repose ! 

Repose with the untroubled balm of sleep, 
Until hope awakes thee ; 
Hails thee to the eternal kingdom yet to come, 
From the mortal night that here awaits us, 
The mists and fogs of this our 
Transitory state. — 



Thy bier is seen afar, in all the gorgeous 
Pomp, the vain attire, the little trappings, 
That mark the futile arts of men, 
The folly of mankind. 
Lofty shade ! from the height of thy 
Immortal place of rest, forgive these burial 
Rites, that gild thy last departure, 
With the dust and nothings of this world. 

Lead on, Britannia, and may thy gallant sons 
For ever wield the trident of the main ! 



Otf 

THE DEATH 

OF 

FRANCIS, DUKE OF BEDFORD, 

WHO DIED IN 1802. 



The character of this highly-respected Nobleman must 
be fresh in the memory of all those who wish well 
to their country. 



The forest darkens, and the flowers decay, 
The cloud must burst that lingers on the day, 
The Sire of heaven denies his cheerful light, 
And darkness spreads the mantle of the night. 



Ah, prematurely, in thy morning bloom 
Sent to the house of solitary gloom, 
Where morbid damps assail the humid ground, 
Where ghosts repeat the dreary sound 
Of Time's eternal, melancholy round ; 
The place, in vain, that mortals would avoid, 
Where runs the silent, never-changing tide. 

The noble youth, that for their country rise, 
Fall to the will of heaven a sacrifice ; 
For them the year puts on her sable weeds, 
And fondly reckons their intended deeds ; 
As autumn weeps for the departing day, 
For them the spring shall mourn, and languish 

in decay. 
Begin the song around the funeral pyre, 
The son must follow to the tomb the sire ; 



8 

In prime of manhood must depart below, 
Where sons of men in sad succession go ; 
For melancholy weaves the scanty thread 
Of those who immaturely join the dead. 
Death has bereaved the soft and joyful hour, 
Fixed to adorn the hymeneal bower, 
And all the vernal sweets of youth's gay flower; 
He left upon the pallet bed the wretch, 
Bedford, the happy and the great, to fetch ! 

Thy princely fortune, and thy towering fame, 
Thy vast possessions, and thy splendid name, 
Alas, how little these avail thee now ! 
To earth you must allot thy final vow, 
With pangs that shut the eye and wring the heart, 
That tells the unwilling spirit to depart ; 
Thy blossoms wither, and thy golden bloom 
For creeping worms and for night makes room. 



O may you reach the ever-vernal shores, 
Where mercy sooths the ills that she deplores! 
Shores ever green, where flowers unfading rise, 
Moistened by dew from the cerulean skies ; 
There shall the needy and the poor attend, 
To hail the indulgent master and the friend ; 
No servile adulation gained by fear, 
To intercede for thee a poet shall appear, 
He sings you to honours of an endless year ; 
No morn or even to these years belong, 
An everlasting hand the hours prolong, 
And souls for ever happy join the song. 

Ye rural bards, with me surround the hearse, 
His fate bewail, this elegy rehearse; 
In sad unison toll the funeral bell, 
And mingle your griefs with the departing knell ! 



10 

Ye gentle swains, attend to grace his bier, 
With all the sweet productions of the year; 
Fly from the groves, and at the dismal sound, 
Stand in mute ranks about his grave around ! 
Ah, stand in silent grief about the dead, 
He knew your wants, your children he fed : 
In after years the fatherless shall mourn, 
And helpless babes shall weep about his urn ; 
Pilgrims will skim the summer morning's dew, 
And with the sky's sweet balm his tomb bedew. 

Ye sweet musicians, that Euterpe fires, 
Begin the harmony that she inspires ; 
The tuneful harp, and lute's melodious woe, 
With him descends into the shades below ; 
He's gone to worlds of night from us away, 
Not to arise until the promised day ! 



ON 

THE DEATH 

OF THE 

PRINCESS OF LAMBALLE, 

WHO WAS MURDERED AT PARIS ON THE ME- 
MORABLE 2D OF SEPTEMBER, 179^. 



A particular account of her death would only shock 
the feelings of the humane reader. The mob wash- 
ed the blood from her face, dressed her hair, and 
then laid her dead body on the street, to be view- 
ed by the multitude ; every brutal, indecent, and 
unfeeling indignity was done to it ; ivhich may 
shew, that a people arrived to an excess of reAne~ 
ment are on the verge of barbarism. 



jLhis injured victim disappears from view, 
In life's gay prime, and half her days not due ; 
Her eyes for others woe no longer weep, 
Sealed by the mists of ever-during sleep ; 



12 

O may the light of truth dispell the gloom, 
Reveal the unabated hardships of thy doom ! 

But Fate surrounds thee, and thy shroud pre- 
pares, 
He chants thy funeral song in plaintive airs ; 
Fair, beautiful Lamballe, the muses mourn, 
And close with sorrow thy untimely urn. 

Then each shall drop an undisguised tear 
On all the sadness of this rueful year; # 
Each cruel murder and abandoned crime 
Fill her black annals in the rolls of time. 



* 1792, exclusively of the French murders of the 10th 
of August, 1st and 2d September, the King of Sweden was 
murdered this year, and the Emperor of Germany suppo- 
sed to be poisoned. 



13 

Thy pale and lifeless corpse is dragged along, 
Where once in splendid pomp you scorned the 

throng ; 
Then from thy face they wash the bloody gore, 
From these sweet lineaments that please no 

more ; 
Thy clotted hair in ringlet wreaths they shew, 
Thy form uncovered to the vulgar view, 
With savage fury on the pavement laid ; 
Base cowards only could insult the dead. 

Thy many friends, with melting goodness won ; 
The poor, on whom thy rays of bounty shone ; 
Not one of these to succour thee are left, 
Of kindness, as of mercy, equally bereft. 

Thy tender form shall lead the dance no more, 
No loving wish thy beauty shall restore ; 



14 

Restore the grace that nature can bestow, 
And all the sweetness from thy sex could flow: 
A great example for the female kind, 
Thy thoughts exalted, and refined thy mind. 

But dragged with horror from these scenes 
away, 
Thy spirit sunk and wasted to decay ; 
Sunk in a dungeon's ever-noisome gloom, 
Sunk at the terrors of an early tomb, 
Thine and thy country's long-lamented doom. 

Behold the victim, from a straw-made bed, 
By evil's minions to the slaughter led, 
Came pale and ghastly to the fated door, 
Soon to lie cold on the ensanguined floor ; 



15 

Soon to forego the balmy sweets of life, 
Given by friendship to the injured wife ; # 
Soon on the couch of death you shall repose, 
And there forget the number of thy woes. 

The cruel fiends that spilt thy harmless blood, 
Ere now are sated with the teeming flood ; 
In anguish'd sorrow they perceive thy shade 
Pass and repass, by angels happy made ; 
By angels led to golden courts above, 
While they stand trembling at the frowns of Jove. 



* She could not live with her husband, the Prince of 
Lamballe, a weak young man, brought to an early grave 
by the profligacy of his brother-in-law the Duke of Orleans. 
She left England out of friendship to her royal mistress 
the Queen of France, then in great distress. This act of 
generosity brought her to an untimely grave. 



ON 

THE DEATH 

OF THE 

EARL AND COUNTESS OF SUTHERLAND, 

AND A FAVOURITE CHILD. 



FROM THE CHRONICLE OF THE ANNUAL REGISTER, 
FOR THE YEAR 1766. 

A letter from Gloucester tells us, that on Thursday passed 
through that city, for Scotland, in tivo hearses from Bath, 
the remains of the late Earl and Countess of Sutherland. 
There is something very affecting in the fate of these no- 
lle personages. The loss of a favourite child, who died 
a short time ago, lay so heavy upon their spirits, that they 
determined to try whether the gaiety of Bath could dispel 
the gloom. They had been there a few weeks only when 
the Earl was taken ill of a violent fever, during which 
the Countess devoted herself so entirely to the care of her 
Lord, that it is asserted, she attended him for twenty-one 
days and nights without ever leaving him, or going to bed; 



17 

mid the apprehension of his danger so affected her spirits 
and appetite, that her stomach refused all sustenance, and 
she died about three weeks ago, perfectly worn out ivith fa- 
tigue and watching ; and on last Monday seennight the 
fever carried off his Lordship. This most amiable pair 
were an honour to nobility ; their conjugal love ivas even 
proverbial. The Earl was only thirty-one, the Countess 
twenty-six" I shall only add, that the example of virtue, 
so uncommonly cherished by persons of their rank and for- 
tune, has a better effect in reforming the world than whole 
folios of morality. 

Placid as brooks on various pebbles flow, 

So smooth the lay that I should here bestow ; 

Or as the summer breeze that fans the rose, 

When to the beauty of the morn it blows ; 

Or as the rural melodies of love, 

The sighs and whispers of the cooing dove ; 

Or as the dying winds that lately blew, 

Lulled by the falling of the balmy dew ; 

So soft should move thy elegy along, 

So plaintive, sweet, and premature the song. 

B 






18 



Sleep, gentle shades ! for thee Euterpe sings, j 
For thee the sorrows of her music brings. 
Sleep, gentle shades ! upon the silent bed, 
That in the low and humble house is made ; 
O, sleep for ever with thy child below, 
And sympathy shall weep, and tears shall flow. 
The father, mother, and the child, are gone, 
Death blasts the sweetness that so early shone ; 
Gone to the tomb in lasting long repose, 
Where winter's dreary night for ever blows. 






No ! you shall reach the ever-tranquil shore, 
Where joys abound, where grief is known no more 
For thee shall Hope in lucid glory rise, 
To light thy way to the celestial skies ; 
Thee shall imbower with heaven's eternal prize; 
Shall gladly waft thee on her seraph wing, 
With angels hail thee to perpetual spring. 






19 

There shall a smiling morn, and endless year, 
And everlasting course of time, appear ; 
And there shall flourish with unfading bloom, 
The transport from the grave, and mortal doom. 

Sleep, gentle shades ! as falls the annual dew, 
So shall the muse thy memory renew ; 
So shall each bard, with melancholy, sing 
The sad remembrance of thy blasted spring. 
You immaturely fell before thy prime, 
In youth cut off, and long before thy time. 

Ill-fated couple ! round their sable biers 
Stand the sad mourners of their hapless years ; 
All weep, and drop the agonizing tears. 

Ah, too much care thy tender thoughts beguiled, 
And the promised woman lost the lovely child ! 



20 

Lost in the morning bloom and dawn of life, 
The sweet companion and the faithful wife. 

Souls ever tuned to sympathetic woe, 
This is the road, and these the paths you go ; 
Your hearts are framed by the superior gods, 
You spurn the earth for their sublime abodes ; 
From vulgar trammels to the skies you soar, 
And seek the beaten tracks of men no more. 

But still remember, on the common ground 
Were mortals born, and there they must be found ; 
The lofty passion must on earth subside, 
Must lose its force upon the human tide. 



Sleep, gentle shades! with heavenly virtue sleep! 

The young shall sing thy fate, the old shall weep, 
l 



The golden links of hymeneal love 
Wings thee a passage to the groves above ; 
To holy founts, and valleys ever green, 
Where pines no sickness, no disease is seen. 
From that sweet place you view the scenes below, 
Scenes that we weave from misery and woe ; 
Down to mankind thy milk of sweetness flows, 
For lost mankind you intercede thy vows ; 
Thy vows are heiard, the mighty gods approve, 
And heaven records them from almighty Jove. 



THE 



PRETENDER'S BURIAL. 



He died in 1788, at Frescati, near Rome, and was 
buried there in a superb suit of peach-coloured satin, 
a golden sceptre in his hand, a sword by his side, 
a croivn full of diamonds on his head, gold buckles 
in his shoes, rings of great value on his fingers, and 
with the insignias of every Order in Great Britain. 



Vi hen God created vain, but short-lived, man, 
His lot was fixed before his joys began. 
No years for him the circling hours delay, 
No hand keeps back his passage to decay; 
Empires themselves at last must yield to fate, 
And all that stately monuments relate. 



23 

No hoary sage, no oracle, can know, 
Where the proud regal dynasty must go. 

Charles, the tyrant rings thy funeral knell, 
Thy hour is struck upon his fatal bell ; 
The grasping arms of death surround thy bed, 
And now proclaims you with the silent dead. 
Yet in thy grave the little pride of man 
Must vainly glitter in that sordid span; 
A mighty splendour, and a worldly state, 
Should these upon this humble mansion wait ? 
This narrow chamber of perpetual gloom, 
This last inheritance, will seal thy doom : 
Misguided heir to Britain's royal crown, 
All thy pretensions with thee here go down. 

A golden sceptre fills the needy hand, 
That often sought by want's supreme command ; 



24 

The George and Garter round his shoulders 

thrown, 
That lived on hope, and his ideal throne ; 
A costly diamond here adorns the head, 
That sleeps profoundly with the countless dead ; 
Arrayed in silk in regal pomp he lies, 
With futile vanity that heaven defies ; 
And laid in armour in the still abode, 
Where man shall rise to pay his vows to God. 

But stop the moral censure of the mind, 
And soothe thy heart to pity and mankind. 
O drop the tears that in thy bosom dwell, 
On human grandeur, in this last farewell ; 
Forget what happened in the final close, 
Where once such state and fleeting greatness 
rose. 



25 

Still on that race thy artless grief bestow ; 
Still for that name thy sympathy will flow. 

Weep the misfortune of his father-kings ; 
Weep the result of all that weakness brings : 
Leave them to sleep from multiplied woe, 
Where George, the happy rival- king, must go. 

Ah, see him fly the lost, the vanquished field, 
And all the smiling sweets that hope could yield ! 
His night comes on like sudden close of day, 
His road grows dark, his feeble light gives way ; 
Heaves a sigh to heaven with hollow eye, 
With ghastly visage, for he longs to die ; 
His sad condition overcharged by fear, 
Want in his front, and Terror in his rear ; 
Where false Ambition's glaring lustre shone, 
Despair is seen upon her sable throne ; 



26 

Her last fond shadow ambles round his heart, 
Only to leave the long-consuming dart. 

Thus falls the stately castle on the plain, 
When earthquake shakes the heavens and the 

main; 
The solid battlements that ages stood, 
Are shook away by the resistless flood ; 
The lofty turrets, with a thundering sound, 
Prone to the earth, fly scattered to the ground. 
Time leaves no vestige of thy former pride, 
As sweeps his mighty all-devouring tide. 



THE 



SICILIAN EARTHQUAKE. 



This Earthquake happened on the 3d of February, 1783. 
At Messina, in Sicily, it began about midnight ; the 
miserable inhabitants, finding their houses falling in 
pieces, fled from the town to a field near it, where they 
were sheltered in temporary tents, and such other cover- 
ing as they could procure. The sea rose sixty feet above 
its usual level ; and having passed over a plain near the 
town, left, on its return, a great quantity of fish on 
ground that it was never known to have visited before. 
The ?noat of the harbour, and a bastion, were thrown to 
a considerable distance into the sea. 

In Calabria, whole towns and villages were buried 
in the earth ; parents, rather than abandon their off- 
spring, perished with them; numbers, in the act of 
taking boats to escape by sea, ivere, by the sudden and 



28 



unusual rising of it, swept away into the ocean. — See 
Sir William Hamilton's account of this earthquake, 
and one in Italian by a Gentleman of Messina. 



How many ills, in his untoward span, 

Do still arise to discontented man ? 

He wanders daily on the brink of fate, 

Unready to ferry the portentous gate. 

To blast his hope, the mighty billows roar, 

The deep lets loose his ever-troubled store, 

The thundering heaven confounds him as he 

stands, 
And with celestial flame lays waste his lands; 
These against his wavering life conspire, 
And issue to his sight the living fire. 

Ah, Sicily ! by Father Heaven designed 
To feed the craving wants of human kind, 



29 

Thy shady groves become to thieves a den, 
Forced to be so, who are by nature men : 
For Superstition points her ruthless hand 
To seize the scanty comforts of the land ; 
The gentle sisters have forbore their sleep, 
Sigh to thy loss, and thy misfortunes weep. 

Thy happy offspring, without fear or dread, 
At once are lost, are plunged among the dead ; 
At once obscured the sun's refulgent ray, 
Turned to profoundest night the height of day, 
Opened the roaring earth, and trembling shook, 
The rising sea his ancient bounds forsook ; 
Shot forth ethereal rage the gloomy sky, 
The mighty wrath of Jove is hurled from high; 
The scene is mingled with thy childrens' gore, 
Who sunk and perished in the wild uproar. 



30 

Alas, the change from gay delights displayed, 
In the hidden tremendous region laid ! 
Death cast their lots below, he rules their doom, \ 
And night surrounds his ever-dismal gloom. 
At length, extended on the gulph of fate, 
They lie with silence in commiserate state, 
Where long Oblivion throws her endless date; 
In quiet repose, for no misfortune stings, 
This course at last with heavenly splendour 

brings ; 
The works of nature, and her offspring free, 
To tides of light eternal, and a boundless sea. 

Some the impending morn, in grand escort, . 
Settled with happy friends the night's disport ; 
Others, whose fancy had engaged to wed, 
Instead of the bridal press'd the funeral bed ; i 






31 

Others their years in long succession cast, 
That lay with the pale-faced moon at rest. 

From lakes interior rush the living fire, 
And mortals run from the avenging ire ; 
It breaks with livid horror into sound, 
That echo answers in the wastes profound ; 
The boiling womb of earth, with constant roar, 
Showers on helpless man the raging store ; 
Seen from afar, the thunderbolts of Jove, 
The fiery missives of his throne above, 
Down the angry vault of heaven they fly, 
And loudly tell his vengeance from the sky; 
The moon's pale visage can but feebly show 
The sad disaster of the scene below. 

In consternation, terror, and affright, 
All fly with horror the unheard-of night. 



32 

O night for ever mourned, whose fatal doom 
Sent to the shades of ever-during gloom. 
The father, mother, and the infant son : 
The gentle sweetness, that so early shone, 
With them is buried, and with them is gone ! 

And tender Sinopole # perished here, 
Perished a victim to a mother's fear ; 
She ran to save the little babe she bore, 
Though in the jarring conflict nature seemed no 

more ; 
The smiling offspring of her bridal love, 
Was left behind without a hope to live ; 
She flew to the remains, her child she found, 
Helpless, and pale, and dying on the ground : 

* The Countess of Sinopole was obliged to fly from her 
house, that shook in pieces ; but recollecting that her in- 
fant daughter was left alone in it, she returned to its as* 
sistance, and both were lost in the ruins. 



33 

Here is the grave, the funeral pile, you seek, 
Thy joint misfortunes, and thy fate to weep; 
O, gently rest, for ever in thy arms she's laid, 
And sweetly repose on thy untimely bed. 

The husband and the father hears the sound 
Of raging bursting elements around, 
Beholds his stately castle tumbling to the ground ; 
There lies for ever in the ruthless deep, 
What long in vain he wails, and long shall weep. 

Far in the waste the mournful peasant hears 
A helpless cry, that overcharge his tears ; 
How changed, alas, his native path he dreads, 
As dismal ruin desolation spreads! 
The winding river here that took its course, 
Is now a lake by mountains thrown across; 
c 



34 

No more his joyful mead or lawn is found, 
His sturdy oak is levelled with the ground ; 
His eager frantic looks implore the skies, 
He lifts to heaven his unavailing sighs, 
Thinks on his tender wife, his helpless child, 
All buried victims in the hideous wild. 

Not man alone the rueful horror flies, 
The brute creation his command defies ; 
With mute and trembling steps they scour the 

plain, 
And plunge with fury in the roaring main. 

The fleet unnumbered tenants of the air, 
Forsake their wonted haunts in wild despair ; 
Their nimble feet on earth no rest can find, 
They cry, and shoot aloft, and pierce the wind. 



35 

In the profound and spacious caves of earth, 
This fiery essence kindles into birth. 
Originates the flame, that breaks the mould 
And adamantine centre of the world ; 
Cities and towns in heaps of ruins lie, 
And woods and fields in devastation by, 

Etna, from thee these humid thunders rise, 
That heave their vivid terror to the skies ; 
Thy mighty towering head, thy awful brow, 
Deals out destruction to the fields below ; 
Thy vast, eternal, never-ceasing fire, 
Lives in a rage of elemental ire ; 
There Pluto's dayless reign no end doth know, 
In these dark chambers he keeps state below; 
The thundering mountain pours his flames 

around, 
The burning fluid rages on the ground, 



36 

The liquid torrents fly with furious blast, 
The ruined harvest is the poor man's last ; 
A sudden trembling horror seize the swains, 
That fly with anguish their consuming plains ; 
And heavenly vengeance, for the sins of men, 
Seems to surround the guilty world again. 

This is the fire that will the world consume, 
His fate lies here, his ever-final doom ; 
From this unwearied fount and gulph will flow 
The last result of all that is below ; 
The Gods have here collected all their ire 5 
All must consume in this eternal fire. 



ON 

THEODORE, KING OF CORSICA. 



Although the history of this unfortunate man is well 
known, it may be necessary to mention the follow- 
ing few particulars : — He was the son of Baron 
Neuhoff, in the circle of Westphalia, in Germany, 
and a merchant's daughter of that country, whom 
he married against the consent of his relations, 
from the principles of love and honour. This ob- 
liged him to fly into France, where he died of 
want and a broken heart. His son, Theodore, 
after acting the monarch for a short time in Cor- 
sica, ivas obliged to go to England, where he was 
thrown into prison for the small sum of L. 400. 
He assigned his kingdom to his creditors ; and 
died in a little mean lodging in Little Chappel 
Street, London, in December 1755. 



otop, ye unwearied ministers of fate. 
Shall man for ever wail his hapless state I 



38 

The mortal arrows from thy quivers fly, 
And fall below from the relentless sky ; 
But not on him that humbly walks the plain, 
They pass him by in generous disdain ; 
They shoot aloft to pierce the sides of kings, 
To show how vain are sublunary things. 

Ah, Theodore, in helpless age you wear 
The pallid symbols thy misfortunes bear ; 
Fell persecution aim'd her poisoned dart, 
And with her wonted fury tore thy heart ; 
Chill meagre want bespoke you for her own, 
And spread her hungry banners round thy throne. 

What evil star could rule thy hour of birth, 
That to the smiling day betrayed it forth ? 
What envious demon made you wear a crown, 
To bring you to the tomb the sooner down ? 



39 

For nature's course indulgently allows 

Full days to those that make her genial vows. 

Thy sire, by fate controuled, his country fled, 
To roam about where wayward fortune led ; 
His heart was fixed to please his lovely bride, 
Against the settled rules of German pride. 
Ah, generous nature, that forsook the laws 
Of mean advantage for her injured cause : 
His hopes were vanish'd, and his day o'ercast, 
His heart was broke upon the rueful blast; 
That proud, but faithful tenant of the breast, 
In lofty natures cannot be oppressed, 
But down it sinks, and melts itself away, 
Nor waits the coming of a happier day. 

Thy mournful Frederick # is seen below, 
Clad in the sober weeds of lasting woe. 

* The son of Theodore, who, from simitar misfortunes, 
put an end to his life in 1797, near Westminster- Abbey. 



40 

Unhallowed man, whose rash and cruel hand 
Seized on his life, against his God's command ; 
Outran the scanty date decreed by Jove, 
Who deals out life in majesty above. 

But no mean triumph here degrades the dead, 
A weeping laurel on his hearse is laid; 
No bigot priest, with persecuting eye, 
Can here insult the wretch that longed to die. 

Descend, unhappy couple, where the weary 
rest, 
There man's injustice cannot goad the breast ; 
Misfortune there may let her victims sleep ; 
O sleep in endless peace, nor wake to weep ! 
They waste in earth, where mighty kings must go, 
As well as these sad children of woe. 

l 






41 

Whoe'er you be that thoughtless pass this 
way, 
Stop and remember thy deceitful day ; 
Look on the mouldering turfs that on them lie, 
That pointing emblem tells that you must die. 

In this small spot their sorrows have an end, 
Laid in one grave, and laid without a friend ; 
Through life's distressing scene the father ran, 
But to exchange it with his hapless son. 



m 



Ah, weep alone, in plaintive accents mourn 
The sad relations of the silent urn ; 
Bewail the gentle, young, untimely maid, 
That here so early and so soon is laid ; 
Or drop a tear upon the sleeping dead, 
Where heaps the mournful, everlasting bed ; 
Lament the coming of the frequent hearse ; 
May the obdurate bosom feel thv verse ! 



END OF THE ELEGIES. 



BEL— S— IS TO BIN AM. 



The aged matron may reprove 
The balmy smiles of youthful love ; 
But Venus gives the sweet desire, 
And Cupid kindles up the fire. 

Bin — g — m, my heart you early won, 
Thy sighs and vows have ceaseless been ; 
Ah could the bridal wish but join 
These constant sighs and vows to mine ! 

Around the waist, alas, I wore 
The female vest that Dido bore ; 



44 

We danced so gaily on the plain, 
I felt a weak bewitching pain, 
I languished on, and now I blush 
To tell each frail and melting wish. 
This sympathy from nature came; 
Ye Gods, allay the wasting flame, 
Stop the cause that feeds my woe, 
Stop the dangerous course I go ; 
O give him to me, or remove 
The hopeless tyrannies of love ! 

Alas, these very Gods will keep 
Thy gallant mien to haunt my sleep : 
A sleepless night succeeds a day, 
In which I mourn and pine away; 
My restless pillow I bedew; 
My spouse I leave to think of you. 



45 

When to the altar I was led 
To give my vows to How — d's bed, 
I thought I saw thy manly air. 
It raised my wild, my sad despair, 
It struck my weak and wounded heart, 
I wept the cruel marriage art, 
Coldly performed the nuptial part. 

The lark will answer to the thrush, 
Their songs they chaunt in every bush, 
And with the dawn the linnet goes 
To sip the dew upon the rose, 
The turtle-dove will help his mate, 
My heart with grief cannot relate 
The double sweetness of their state ; 
While I for you must long repine, 
And weep, because you are not mine : 



46 

My heart was simple, weak, and young, 
A gentle heart, that parents wrung ; 
Ah come, in sweet and soft disguise, 
And take away thy injured prize ! 

Were I to a convent gone, 
My hopeless love to weep alone, 
Buried in my youthful days 
Far from light's reviving blaze, 
My anguish might in time subside, 
And lose its force on Lethe's tide : 

But forced to marry him I hate, 
A victim to the glare of state ; 
Against my will to be his bride ; 
My breast the wound can never hide. 



SONG, 

WRITTEN DURING 

THE THREATENED FRENCH INVASION 
IN 1803. 



I. 

Who fights when the good of his country calls, 
Who bleeds to defend her, most nobly falls; 
He that tarries to mix in the glorious strife, 
Deserves on a scaffold to forfeit his life. 

Let Britons arise and watch on the shore, 
Bid adieu to their wives, and dally no more. 



48 

II. 

Will you part with your king, with your free- 
dom, and laws ? 

I should box the first man that gave up the cause. 

Will you part with your beef, with your ale, 
and your grog, 

For the half of a mushroom, and leg of a frog ? 
Let Britons, &c. 

III. 

A coward is led with contempt to the grave, 
But fame in her temple ennobles the brave ; 
Many deaths he must feel who shamefully flies, 
Ajid but one can await him who gallantly dies. 
Let Britons, &c. 

IV. 

Repair to the ocean, undaunted, ye tars, 
Push boldly your foes to the end of the wars 






49 

Stand firm to your guns, and be always employed, 
Till they go to the bottom, sunk, burnt, and de- 
stroyed. 
Let Britons, &c. 






THE 



POOR MAN'S MITE 

FOR HIS BURIAL. 



In the lone corner of a cottage lies, 
Ready to bury Abner when he dies, 
All the hard earnings of a labouring life, 
And all the savings of a thrifty wife ; 
There, in a little purse, is all his store, 
Him to inter ; for Bridget is no more ! 

Long had he laboured the ungrateful ground. 
And often measured the unwearied round ; 



51 

He worked till night, and at the dawn began, 
Toiled for the useless luxury of man ; 
For this he gets a span of earth below, 
'Tis all he asks of greatness to bestow. 



ODE TO TIME. 



1805. 



Thy wings refulgent fan the light, 
That brings the morn to mortal sight ; 

The hours advance thy rapid sway, 

Down the fleet career of day, 

To evening's declining ray : 
Thy lamp must then in ocean sink, 
And with the night oblivion drink ; 

Thy aid the weary ask from high, 

On beds uneasy sunk they lie, 

And long for the day when they shall die : 



53 

Long for the unmolested shore, 
Where man shall rest and weep no more. 
In thy ever-during race 
Creation you embrace. 

Thou endless offspring of the sky, 

Our feeble reason you defy, 

As round the vast circle of the heavens 
you fly. 
The mystic son of Jove, 
His unwearied messenger above. 

How much of the lucid store 

Of ancient venerable lore 

Is lost on thy irremeable shore ! 

The fleeting actions of mankind, 

And restless vanities of mind, 

Leave not a trace behind ; 
Leave no memorial of their day, 
Dissolve in thy mist and waste away. 



54 

Nor ebbs thy ever-filling tide, 

Our daily and perpetual guide. 

As with the mass of heaven you move, 
In all the regions of the sky, 

You tune celestial choirs above, 

And rule the mighty spheres on high. 

As round the course sublime you ride, 

The race eternal you decide. 

The fates for thee their vigils keep, 
They bury in the raging deep 
The millions that in ocean sleep : 
Alike the rolling wave, 
The pass to a humid grave, 
The bold, intrepid, and the brave. 

They measure of the sea they run, 

They vanquish with the burning sun. 



55 

No frail, no finite mortals know 
The end of tides that ever flow, 
That to kingdoms undiscovered go : 

With silent magic race, 

They fill the boundless realms of space. 

The wise, the happy, and the great, 
With thee must run the race of fate ; 
The busy, witty, and the brave, 
Must lie in thy promiscuous grave; 
Must like the beggar lie, 
The king who daily feasts on high. 

The gay, the beauteous, and the young, 

The weak, the timid, and the strong, 

Swim on thy stream along. 

Must swim along thy magic flood, 
The monuments that ages stood, 



56 

Swims by everlasting sway 

Nations and men away, 
With unresisted sweep, 
To the far lone inexorable deep. 

Thy ever-seeing eyes unfold, 
The miser's haunts and hidden gold ; 
The guilt that man would veil from view ; 
The hands that blood and crimes imbue; 
The tyrant's deep and wily schemes ; 
Ambition's mad and airy dreams. 

O ! that the race of man may see, 
Death and the grave dissolved in thee ; 
Hope, that ranges on thy wing, 
Shall then with endless rapture sing, — 
Vestals fair, and ever young. 



57 

No helpless babe shall weep ; 

No gloom beshade the deep ; 

No grief, with melancholy hue, 

No sighs the heart, no tears the eye bedew : 

A healing rest the gods allow, 

And pity can on want bestow. 

No orphans round their mother cling ; 

No scenes of deep distress they bring; 

Nor vows of Hymen, nor the marriage ring. 
The deepened shades of night, 
Fly the celestial light. 

In flows a clear unwearied day, 

The life of man will not decay, 

But journies on the heavenly way. 

What passes to the grave of things, 

Thy fertile womb capacious brings, 
And teeming nature from thee springs. 



58 

The deeds how great, how vain begun, 
What men achieve below the sun, 
Like atoms on thy ocean run. 

From a hid immortal source, 

What moves with a continual force; 

The lucid orbs of endless day, 

That ride on aether's fiery way, 

With nature's universal chain, 

What binds the surface of the main ; 

The links that fasten nature's power, 

What blows the rose and fans the flower. 

Coeval with this fire sublime, 

You march for ever on, you flourish in thy 
prime. 

Thy mollifying balms assuage, 

And soothe the pangs of grief and age, 

And calm the impotence of rage : 



59 

All things are born in thee and die, 
Thou never-ceasing agent of the sky. 

What in the caves of earth or waters creep, 

The fleet inhabitants of air, 

The tender offsprings of care. 
What roams the deep, 
Must yield to thy supreme decree, 
Must vanish and decay in thee. 
The annual verdures of the ground, 
In vain diffuse their sweetness round ; 

They show their blooms and die, 

Nor can on man rely, 

Nor can thy scythe defy ; 
By one short space their lustre bound : 
They sink in thy resistless power, 
The feeble efforts of an hour 

Thy slow, thy ever-wasting rust, 



60 

Corrodes the venerable bust, 
Moulders the race of man to dust, 
Consumes the works of men away, 
And all that breathe the sweets of da^. 

On pure cerulean mists above, 
Thy chariot wheels for ever move ; 
The steeds of Phaeton you outrun, 
The flaming racers of the sun. 

A thousand years like minutes pass ; 
They vanish like the morning due, 
Or shadows of ethereal hue. 
From the council of the gods you flow, 

To steer the fleetness of the light ; 
And with the course of nature go, 
To man's short reign below, 
To walk with visions of the night. 



6i 

As lasts the mirrors of the sky, 

The golden lamps that burn on high ; 

So may the trump of fame, 

To years remote proclaim, 

To years eternal sound the British name. 
So long with ocean's undiminished force, 
May run thy just, thy regal course ; 
A never-fading race with time, 
To rule the nations of each clime. 



SOLILOQUY 



OF 



LOUIS THE XVI. KING OF FRANCE, 

THE NIGHT PREVIOUS TO HIS EXECUTION, TH1 
20TH OF JANUARY, 1793. 



I who once lived the potent monarch of the west! 
Served by all the peers and princes of my blood, 
In the great palace of the splendid Louis, 
I am here shut up with baleful damps, 
That I must breathe with noisome reptiles, 
Closely immured by the hands of an unfeeling 
jailor. 



63 

The dreary sides, and empty floors, of this 
My unhappy habitation, look like the cheerless 
Temper of my soul. 

Long is the night to me, before the shadows 
Of the dawn appear upon them 
But the healthful aspect of the morn 
Brings not to this place the airy spirits 
Of the lightsome heart. 
It tunes his matin song to the happy rustic, 
Though fed on homely fare, and clothed 
In russet tatters ; but to me conveys alone 
The thoughts of past and fallen greatness. 
I who once ruled an empire of obedient sons, 
And far extended were my smiling numerous 
Domains, my stately towns, and once loyal cities. 
I must long for a few peaceful hours of rest, 
The sweet and gentle slumbers that never come 
To lull my troubled spirit to repose, 






64 



From the anguished memory of better days. 
When that rusty door is shut at close of day, 
From its jarring bolts there comes a sound, 
That spreads a damp and horror on my heart 
That then begins to flow ; until my sighs keep pace 
With the listening silence of the night. 

That I am not a single victim to misfortune, 
A devoted prey to sanguinary men, 
Is not a consolation worthy of a king. 
My brave nobility, 

Now feel the cruel pangs of want in foreign lands : 
Chased from their native ample possessions 
And endearing soil; or at home, in the once gay 
And happy France, suffer dissolution, 
By the furious mandates of a mob. 
From men who soil the sacred fanes of heaven 
With blood of the unhappy and the innocent, 



65 

And from it march to pillage, massacre, 
And spoil ; men whose hearts were steeled 
Against their parents' breasts. 

They black revenge returned for kindly counsel ; 
And, with mad rage and fury, overturned 
The long established fabric of my ancient king- 
dom. 

Sweet innocence ! for thee I choose 
That my blood shall run, than that theirs 
Shall raise an evil conscience in my bosom ; 
That unwelcome guest, and sad annoy er of the 

bad. 

A guiltless heart I carry with me ; it shall soothe 
My footsteps on the short but troubled road> 
That leads to the stage, where the final curtain 
Shall be drawn between my country and me, 

E 



66 

But these are thoughts that overcharge with grief 
The memory of what I was ; 
And adds to the weight of my long-carried 
Uneasy burden. 

Welcome to-morrow, that frees me 
From the wasting tortures of my fate; 
Then shall I bid a long adieu to the little 
Earthly good I hat's left me here. 
Ah, but 1 must quit the sweet remembrance 
Of my marriage rites, and her whose 
Maiden bloom made me a father 
In the course of time ! 

Farewell, thou dear, little, unprotected 
Objects of my love ! 

What shall you be when I am no more ? 
Orphans among the hardened people of this world ! 



67 

Victims to the cruelty of men, who shall 
Drag you from a prison to the ruthless 
Scene of death ! May God protect you then, 
And do what thy unhappy father 
Could not in the days of his misfortune ! 
Adieu, my brave, though hapless nobles, 
The faithful followers of my house ! 
And may they strive to drink the bitter 
Cup with manliness, and with resignation 
Taste the dregs and sorrows of their 
Evil fortune ; remember their long and 
Spotless lineage, whose course ran always 
In the paths of honour; and may they 
Run it still, whatever their fate may be 
For mine, it sinks into the tomb 
And silent night : 
But hope is there, and points to a place 



68 

Where persecution finds nor shield 
Nor shelter for her cruelty. 

Adieu, my stately palace, where oft I ran 
The cloyed race of tasteless majesty ; 
Where oft I wish'd to be the man 
That worked contented in his little field. 

Versailles ! thy now deserted lofty towers, 
And decorated rooms of state, thy superb 
Battlements, thy gilded turrets, where glory 
Once resided with gaiety, wealth, and tumult, 
Thou art now but the silent residence 
Of gloom, an useless lumber in a fallen state. 
The owl sits in thy wide halls and empty 
Passages, where used to crowd all the beauty, 
All the wit of France, to seek and win preferment 
And when she flies the light, there comes 



69 

The fastidious votaries of taste, or useless 
Ones of curiosity, who compare thy degraded 
State with mine. 

Thou lofty spirit of my fathers, 
That animated sacred Louis and martial 
Henry ; that for a thousand years held up 
The sceptre and the crown, 
Though both must perish now ; 
Support me in this my hardest trial, 
That I may die worthy of my race, 
And of the long line of warlike kings, 
Whose ruined and devoted heir I am ! 

They both must perish now, the sceptre 
And the crown, tinged with my blood, 
And buried in the grave with me ! 



70 

He bids adieu to life, to waste below ; 
O cease to weep ! thy tears in vain will flow. 
Here meet thy fate, and wipe these tears away, 
And turn for ever from the sweets of day. 



OK 



THE UNIVERSAL DELUGE. 



When crimes and murders in the world began, 
And God determined to extirpate man, 
The living clay that with his breath he formed, 
He found it earthly, and with vice deformed; 
He ordered Noah should his ark prepare, 
And save some creeping things of earth and air, 
The rest to perish in the flood to come, 
And there to meet their fate and settled doom. 



72 

Then did a fearful voice upon the deep arise, 
That rent the trembling earth and clouded skies; 
The heart of man within him sunk, the sound 
Ran through creation in the endless round, 
The awful warning of eternal Jove, 
The thunder of his lucid throne above ; 
Where sins of men in guilty heaps arose, 
Avenging heaven must of her works dispose. 

Then broke the fountains of the tumid deep, 
In vain shall man bewail or mortals weep ; 
Down the ethereal vault the rain doth pour, 
Eternity begins her fatal hour, 
Flew into air the thin celestial doors : 
What heaving pangs the human heart endures,! 
Poured forth in floods the windows of the sky, 
Men and their vain and fleeting works must die. 



73 

His word is past, his ever-wise decrees 
Must be obeyed from the surrounding seas ; 
The globe of earth, a turbid liquid plain, 
Is now confounded with the humid main ; 
For Eolus arose in stormy wrath, and huif d 
The waves of ocean on the troubled world. 

Amazed, mankind looked up in wild despair, 
And waft to heaven the unavailing prayer ; 
All flesh must now irrevocably go, 
Where nature points, into the shades below. 

Descends the widow's wrongs, the orphan's 
tears, 
Manhood's ambition, and the virgin's fears, 
The vanities of men, a multifarious heap, 
Here must go down in the unbounded deep, 



74 

Must vanish for ever in the wastes below, 
All that the brave achieve, or wise can know. 

Whatever walks the earth, or roams on high, 
The fleet unnumbered tenants of the sky, 
In this unfathom'd universal grave must lie ; 
Must sink in this flood the mass of human things, 
All that the womb of earth, or female, brings. 

Silence and horror fill the boundless void, 
And no sweet dawn the days and nights divide, 
No dewy twilight tells the approach of morn, 
Or rising stars the heavenly vault adorn ; 
Saturn and Chaos have entombed the dead, 
That on the vast domain of night are spread. 

Though all seemed gone to everlasting sleep, 
The immortal Spirit walked upon the deep, 



75 

To Noah he descended, clothed in light, 
His heavenly splendour overbore the sight, 
Clothed in the force of majesty divine, 
That nature and omnipotence combine ; 
Then at the hallowed accents of his voice, 
The floods assuage, the teeming waters cease. 

The darkened face of chaos clears away, 
Flows the refulgent light of heaven, the day ; 
The world emerges from a nightly gloom, 
The lively hue of being to assume ; 
The torpid sleep of death shall now arise, 
In mist to vanish by the opening skies ; 
With quick increase shall generations flow, 
As in a cloud shall change the mystic bow; 
A countless race in multitudes shall be, 
As rising waves upon the troubled sea ; 



76 

From dying pangs he nature will restore, 
Her former course he disallows no more. 

"First to their principles the parts dispose, 
Mountains and hills in wild disorder rose ; 
Falls on the fields a sweet dissolving dew, 
Flowers of the year to happy man renew ; 
The lark and linnet chaunt the morning song, 
A new creation to their strains belong, 
That down to gentle eve their notes prolong. 

Now a new race with joy survey the ground, 
To choose their rural habitations round, 
The crystal fountain and the leafy grove, 
And safe retreats for happiness and love. 

Their wide dominions can no limits know, 
No stores to gather, and no fields to sow, 



77 

No hostile kings command in proud array, 
To spread around disaster and dismay, 
No wretches toil upon the barren plain, 
No hind will harvest the unasked for grain, 
All by spontaneous nature given, 
And without labour by indulgent heaven. 

The rose shall add to the abundant year, 
And with the sweet anemone appear, 
The lamb secure will range the smiling field, 
And crop the sweetness that the flower shall 

yield, 
The rising infant race shall bloom around, 
And plenty pour her fulness on the ground. 

For now shall time a race unwearied run, 
An era new, for a new world's begun ; 



78 

A joyful course of time, with vast career, 
Shall ever wind the cycle of the year ; 
With endless force the magic wheel shall move, 
Of this mysterious messenger of Jove. 






EPITAPH 

ON 

PHILIP II. KING OF SPAIN. 



Stern, cruel foe to human kind, 
To whom the Gods denied sweet peace of mind 
A jealous monster, who constrained to run, 
The blood that haunts him of his wife and son 
He thought the zealous bigot could atone 
The crimes and murders of his guilty throne; 
Impenetrable there, and fixed as fate, 
He sat in vengeance and relentless state ; 
But heaven accounts to man for all he did, 
For ruin followed what her laws forbid. 



EPITAPH 

ON THE GREAT 

EARL OF CHATHAM. 



Thou bold assertor of thy country's cause, 

Born to protect our liberty and laws, 

You spurned the man that would thy worth 

controul, 
And him that lacked sincerity of soul ; 
From you the thunder of the lion fell 
On all the slaves that would their country sell ; 
A less degree of wrath you sent our foes, 
So clear a pledge you never gave to those ; 
I might the living with the dead compare, 
I scorn to flatter were an equal there. 

1 



EPITAPH 



ON THE GREAT 



MARQUIS OF MONTROSE. 



x orget thy fate, thy country wounds no more, 
And lie contented on the Ely si an shore; 
There shall the souls of mighty heroes slain, 
Rise on the surface of that distant main, 
Rise to salute you in victorious song, 
That moves the passions of the warlike throng : 
With these, in endless rest, enjoy the fame 
Thy manly qualities so justly claim. 



EPITAPH 

ON THE 

YOUNG DUKE OF ANCASTER, 

WHO DIED IN 1779, HIS AGE TWENTY-THREE, 
IN THE POSSESSION OF EVEKY THING THAT 
COULD MAKE LIFE DESIRABLE. 



Ah, passenger, you see how short the date 
Of years is left to Ancaster by fate ! 
Possessed of all that greatness could bestow, 
He to the region of the tomb must go ; 
There on his monument inscribe the lines 
Written by grief, the sorrow of the times ; 



83 

He that in youth and manly beauty shone, 
Is laid to the vault, and prematurely gone; 
There let the muse, on his untimely grave, 
Her gentle tears and sympathy engrave. 



In no region of the world 
Do mortals tarry uncontroul'd ; 
Their weakness and their vices cause 
Their actions to be bound by laws : 
Do not then, my friend, complain, 
But with the lark begin thy strain, 
The follies of the day controul, 
And tune to peace thy restless soul ; 



84 

For discontent will raise up strife, 
And fouls the golden spring of life, 
And makes it but a weary dream 
That soils the beauty of the stream. 



THE 



ELECTION DINNER. 



WRITTEN IN THE YEAIl 1805. 



PART FIRST. 



Reap Adam Ferguson, his book will show 

The real history of man below : 

May these few verses cover me with shame, 

If private worth or virtue I defame; 

The lines indeed a placeman may despise, 

His angry speech is nothing in my eyes, 

If those who love their country praise the end, 

Who cannot the defective verse commend. 



86 

Come, haughty Tippo, where the feast will be, 
And reap in harvest what was sown by thee; 
Come with thy daring eloquence profound, 
The senate hears, and trembles at the sound. 
Silence prevails, and all is hushed around ; 
For they can see in thy capacious mind 
The great Demosthenes and Tully join'd ; 
A flowing river, rapid from the source, 
That deigns not to survey or view his course, 
But carries the majestic flood along, 
Sublime, though copious, though diffusive, strong, 
It breaks the feeble bars and vulgar mounds, 
And sweeps the valleys and adjacent grounds. 



Thy hands were clean, though others stole the 
soap, 
Small crimes at first to greater may provoke; 



87 

Thy reign began by counting pounds and pence, 
A downright insult on the nation's sense ; 
And when your private stock you threw away, 
You thought that ours might safely go astray; 
By this the peasant fasting goes to bed, 
His famished child is numbered with the dead. 

With you shall Tarno come, though late in 
years, 
He forces our applause when he appears ; 
A hated coalition soiled his name, 
Tarnished his manly eloquence and fame ; 
But time and age has taught him to controul 
The rapid strides of an ambitious soul, 
A people great and free will always show 
An orator the length that he should go ; 
They make him silent for a while, to find 
The steady principles he left behind. 



88 

Brasso, sit down, thy eloquence is calm, 
Pour on this dinner thy delightful balm ; 
The craving rest, so natural to man, 
In democracy first the wish began ; 
You cannot now the pleasing wish consign, 
Thy country's frown has forced you to resign : 
Hail, happy country ! where a tradesman's lad 
Can trounce the venal, or impeach the bad ; 
The high, commanding, haughty, stately peer, 
If wrong, must yield to him that brews his beer. 

No hungry crowd shall now besiege thy gate, 
To poison all thy select hours of state ; 
They now belong to him who got thy place, 
His virtues they extol before thy face, 
And then retire to laugh at thy disgrace. 



89 

Thy former golden friendship all forgot. 
Of most discarded ministers the lot ; 
Thy pension-list is gone to other hands, 
And other views and homage it demands ; 
I will except a worthy, decent few, 
If what is written, what is said be true. 

Once might a northern bard or poet write, 
Soft were their beds if Brasso would endite ; 
Tame lines from them would have a quicker sale 
Than Pindar's Poems, and the Trojan tale; 
But now with spirits sunk they want renown, 
The poet starves, the bard must fly the town. 
In bold heroics let me sing thy feats,, 
To Highlands you gave coal instead of peats ; 
Justice lay naked at a sheriff's door, 
You gave her clothes, and sent her to the poor. 



90 

Sit down, Iaeho, drink thy wits away, 
Debauch the night, and superadd the day: 
Gives heaven abundant talents for abuse ? 
Shall man pervert them to so base an use ? 

And who comes here the splendid feast to 
see? 
The man who gained the universal fee ; 
He turns his back, he leaves the feast, and goes 
To shield the arts that disappoint our foes: 
The shafts of envy may a fault descry, 
Found only in the baleful vision of her eye, 
But cannot always against worth prevail, 
In him that's constant to the public weal. 

Come, little Rino, come and take thy place, 
I §ee the honest Briton in thy face ; 



91 



Why hate Aurelian, when you're both alike ? 
The great have follies that create dislike. 



Superbo comes, who took the palm away 
From the most honoured worthies of the day; 
Armies he commands, and councils sway. 

These are the guests ; their country pays for 
all; 
Since that's the case, they may obey the call. 

They sit together near the table's head ; 
The small are placed below, profusely fed : 
The host appears, and labours with a dish, 
That holds a juicy turbot, king of fish, 
And round it circles an enormous ling, 
No prince could order a more savoury thing; 



92 

With shrimp and oyster sauce, and Yarmouth 

herring, 
So nicely seasoned by a cook unerring ; 
Such steaks of beef were never seen before, 
Cut out in Leadenhall's abundant store : 
To count the chops I often did intend, 
Were not the chops and cutlets without end ; 
The legs of mutton, and the loins of beef, 
No citizen could weigh without relief; 
A score of lambs for politicians die, 
Two score of harmless pigeons in a pie ; 
The globous puddings, like a twelve-inch shell, 
Filled the capacious stomach with their smell. 

Aline uncommon should the haunch describe, 
A haunch, the fattest from the forest tribe, 
With claret-sauce is roasted to a turn, 
For once again would make it overburn ; 



93 

None feels for him slain by the shooter's art. 
We eat to please the stomach, not the heart : 
A guiltless animal why should you bleed, 
That guilty and voracious man may feed? 

But what avail the greasy lines you wrote ? 
O turtle, prince of food, you are forgot : 
Unequalled in the sounding rolls of fame, 
From Indies West the unctuous monster came ; 
The Navy Board, the Admirals, and all, 
Came up to see the sappy animal ; 

In Tippo's house it lay for open view, 

To taunt the many, but to feast the few. 

To have it cooked the Corporation join, 

In all the luxury of spice and wine ; 

The labour is rewarded when they dine. 

Short is the date of happiness to man, 

The form how sickly when it first began ; 



94 



The empty god of nothing brought it forth, 
And for a short duration gave it birth : 
It surely flies from those who seek it most, 
The turtle-eater knows it to his cost; 
For all this juice and fat of verdant hue, 
His gouty stomach in the morn shall rue, 
And moist and mortal dropsies hover round, 
And all diseases in the mass abound. 
We hope no meagre Frenchman will defame 
What cooks and waiters should have seen witih 

shame : 
But these are men to feasting callous grown, 
Slaves of the rich, and hackneyed on the t( 
For them no rural festivals appear, 
No smiling day, no gala in the year ; 
A hurried call's rotation is their treat, 
The kitchen steam and chimney's greasy h 






95 

No lark, no linnet for a cook will sing, 
No thrush salutes a butler in the spring, 
Save in a cage, sad emblem of a wood, 
That in the passage to the pantry stood. 

With fish and spicy soup the feast began, 
Sharp knives contended, and the gravy ran; 
Soon as a plate was emptied of its store, 
A nimble waiter got it filled with more ; 
The carvers stood engaged with busy face, 
To see that each had plenty in his place 
These at the table sides, and at each end, 
Cut up the juicy meat that they commend. 
The second course comes up, and served in style, 
Alas, the loaded stomach wants a file! 
A hearty bumper of Madeira wine 
Assists the epicures again to dine ; 



96 






Each in a hurry to the charge began, 
He that's a dog can be no longer man; 
Plates flew about like driven flakes of snow, 
Long corks resound, and foaming tankards flow; 
Not Homer's battles, when the Gods engage, 
Could well surpass the bustle and the rage. 






END OF PART FIRST. 






THE 



ELECTION DINNER. 



PART SECOND. 



The flames of Etna to the clouds arise, 
And heave their liquid fury to the skies ; 
Jove from the mighty pinnacle decrees 
Laws for the world and the surrounding seas; 
He views the level and extended plain, 
The wide, the silent, and the tranquil main ; 
From it in glory rises to his view, 
An image of himself in golden hue ; 
o 



98 

The noblest work of his divine command, 
The superior stamp and essence of his hand. 
But view the horrid scene that reigns below, 
From whence the flaming livid torrents flow: 
Near to sulphureous caves of raging fire, 
Lives the arch- traitor aad revolted sire; 
In agony supreme, for length of days, 
He sees no light but what these caves displays ; 
In miserable durance, hears no sound 
But the fierce burning of the lava round ; 
In vain he longs to die, that cannot be, 
He lives for ever, so the Gods decree; 
He longs of smiling day to see the light, 
And of the upper world implores a sight : 
His wish is granted, he unbars the door, 
But takes a little turn upon the floor, 
To think of foul revenge upon his foes, 
Impatience gets the better, out he goes. 



99 

Satan looked up, and at a monstrous stride 
He comes upon the wealthy Tamis' side, 
Sees the election dinner that is there, 
But how for such a feast could he prepare ? 
He thinks, bewilders, and at last he says, — 
" Suppose I imitate King George's ways; 
I will be welcome to the table's head, 
To drink, and give the toast, and take the lead ; 
I'll borrow George's form, but lay aside 
My double nostrils, and my sooty hide." 

His cloven feet and fingers disappear, 
He throws the sad betrayers to the rear, 
With golden buckles he adorns his feet, 
And pulls the polished latchets till they meet. 
A splendid uniform, inlaid with gold, 
His scaly back and tawny sides infold, 



100 

A blunted goodness from his visage ran, 
At once he stands and looks an honest man. 

He makes but half a step, and he appears 
Bounce by the side of Tippo and his peers ; 
The whole assembly in confusion rise, 
They see the king, but scarce believe their eyes ; 
They greet his majesty, a noble guest, 
Sorry he came not sooner to the feast ; 
They hail him to sit down, and give the toast — 
A mighty chairman, and a worthy host. 

The Devil sat down, and filled a bumper- 
glass, 
Told all to fill, and make the bottle pass ; 
He then with frankness drank to the election, 
And spoke upon its merits with affection. 



101 

He filled again, and drank to Tippo's health, 
For spending like a man the nation's wealth. 
He thus addressed, but in a speech not long, 
The able minister of right and wrong : — 
a A weighty subsidy you gave away, 
To rouse a sleeping monarch of the day ; 
Frankly you gave the money without art, 
Before the monarch could perform his part ; 
Tired of the slavery of pounds and pence, 
You came to millions by a counter sense : 
I drink your health ; if I should lack a guinea, 
Great minds despise to regulate their money." 

Tippo got up, nor once suspects the man, 
And with his sweeping eloquence began : — 
" Dread sire, who took me early by the hand, 
To souse a factious and illegal band, 
The coalesced tyrants of the land, 



102 

Though fierce ambition ruled my youthful breast, 

I was the nation's favourite confessed ; 

I furbished up a second India bill, 

That pleased the British people to their will; 

And yet I framed it on the very ground 

Where all the errors of the first were found ; 

Folly beset the fickle public mind, 

Who have been since to all my actions blind : 

But, sire, for this I stood your steady friend, 

When heaven had spun your senses to an end ; 

The young and old forsook the best of men, 

I fought against them with my tongue and pen ; 

I sent them down to opposition's bourne, 

Where discontented men bewail and mourn : 

Deeds not to mention, if 1 had not stood 

Against the cruel and gigantic flood 

That came from France insane, to overwhelm 

The long-established fabric of our realm. 









103 

I did against the many-headed giant arm., 
Sounded for frightened Europe the alarm, 
And British valour drove him to his den, 
Where long may he remain, nor mix with men ; 
A warlike nation was betrayed by fear, 
Saw in each gale a Jacobin appear, 
With false and unbecoming terror drunk, 
The hearts of men of common courage sunk. 
They spoke of milder councils and the law ; 
In these good words I soon observed a flaw : 
I rose up with the danger of the time, 
And who would then a minister confine ? 
I stood up boldly for the British cause, 
And for such evil times I suited laws. 
Here I might stop, but Erin comes to mind, 
Erin uncouth, where mischief's in the wind ; 
I brought against the arts of treason, 
A nation led astray to reason ; 



104 

With each Hibernian transaction 

I made a ministerial paction : 

I made that crooked fiend, rebellion, 

Straight as a stick to hang a bell on, 

And bound her with a golden cord, 

For such our pockets could afford ; 

But Erin put my wits to rout, 

And from my function threw me out ; 

A function I enjoyed long, 

You know the weak obey the strong; ■ 

I joined her watery bogs to Britain, 

Her fatal rocks my hopes were split on ; 

Should you mark me with a frown, 

My greatest deed of life disown, 

The adding that country to our own ; 

Long in steady union may they be, 

Hence and evermore may they be free," 



105 

Tippo sat down, the hall resounds with praise, 
Such as a Garrick or a Quin could raise; 
Such noise succeeds, as little Betty makes 
Among the London rabble, wits, and rakes. 

Superbo rose, and seized a pot of wine, 
Like those the Germans swallow when they dine ; 
He filled a glass, despising sordid wealth, 
He drank to fluent swarthy Tarno's health. 

Tarno got up to echo back the praise, 
A new invention of these modern days : 
He said, a Superbo long had been his boast, 
The very man who gave him for a toast. 
Superbo," he said, " from Saxe could take a 

town, 
If Tippo forbore to sully his renown $ 



106 

Forced to attend the soft declaiming hours, 

In which for party he libation pours, 

And quits the service of the sword for ours. 

" Bred up when young in ways of strife, 
When young Columba fought for life, 
I joined her injured, helpless cause, 
For then I thought it helped our laws \ 
For this I have a cynic been, 
And never at St James's seen. 
I spoke and thundered in the senate, 
And moved the minds of all within it; 
But when the people left the house, 
My speeches could no longer rouse 
Him that was bent upon a place, 
That constitutional disgrace ; 
For when each member can have one, 
*Tis then indeed we are undone. 

1 






107 

" I ruled the helm a little while; 
Glimpses of happiness beguile, 
And like the short returns of reason, 
That favour madmen for a season, 
Or like the melody of rhyme, 
That warms the poet for a time, 
It made me think I was in heaven, 
If place were neither sought nor given. 

" Wearied out in opposition, 
I wished the premier at perdition ; 
And when I could not get my way, 
Nor bear a leader's factious sway, 
I left my duty and my station, 
Cared not a fig for all the nation." 

Tarno sat down ; a faint degree of praise 
Was all his speech and eloquence could raise. 



108 

Tarno forgot a special useful thing, 
To save his name from laughter in a ring ; 
The great must cherish and support a name, 
The close imposing sentinel of fame. 



Then rose the metamorphosed king of hell, 

To men half drunk he would his story tell ; 

Wine is an enemy to virtue's cause, 

■ 
And dims the scanty tablet of her laws ; 

It melts the native good that's in the mind, 

And makes a fool ot him that's well inclined : 

To praise the goodness of a worn-out law, 

In which an oyster-wench might see a flaw, 

Smooth from his lips the silken accents ran, 

With sly and winning softness he began : — 

" Of all the institutions men could raise 
In these degenerate and after days, 



109 

None equals a popular election, 
Where men for nought can get rejection ; 
As forty shillings by the year 
Can only serve for bread and beer. 

" A small estate, though badly won, 
May serve a man that's half undone ; 
A right-hand bludgeon in a fight 
May put a senator to flight ; 
For he that mingles in a crowd, 
Is no companion for the proud ; 
A boxing- match by instigation, 
Mars not a vote for legislation ; 
An eye shut up, gives to the other 
A sharper sight, and helps her brother 
To see the wrongs of human kind, 
In the erroneous statesman's mind ; 



110 

A mob from him must get redress, 

His toes they tread, his heels they press ; 

A statesman must be in the wrong, 

Who keeps a weighty station long ; 

By this he must acquire the art, 

That starves the mouth and wrings the heart ; 

If eloquence he adds profound, 

He rules the Commons with a sound." 

Tippo amazed at what he hears, 
Began to stare and prick his ears; 
But with a Briton's dauntless heart, 
He feared not all the kingly art ; 
He thought he saw his monarch still, 
So deep the fountain of all ill. 



The gentle bird completes his nest, 
And then within it takes his rest: 



Ill 

The lawyer completes his cause, 
And dreams no more upon the laws; 
A priest in church may be divine, 
Yet not forget that he should dine ; 
The writer has drank out his ale, 
And with it shall dispatch his tale. 

Satan went on, and told each guest, 
That drink should warm and heat the breast, 
That time was fleet and ran away, 
Paid no regard to night or day : 
Let festive mirth and joy go round, 
Be drunk, the Corporation round, 
Till reason is in claret drowned, 

The traitor saw his eloquence was done, 
Wished for applause, endeavoured to sit down; 



US 

But morn appeared upon the eastern sky, 
And to each object gave a feeble dye ; 
He knew the licence given him was out, 
That day had always put his schemes to rout; 
To spread around surprise, dismay, and din, 
Evaded going out as he came in. 

He soon a rapid transformation found, 
In the blunt noisy quickness of a sound ; 
He broke the table with a giant stroke, 
Sprung into air a pyramid of smoke ; 
The roof gave way, the guests in silence gaze, 
The smoke ascends in a convolving maze, 
Vanished at once like nothing, or a dream, 
Or empty bubble on the passing stream. 
Terror came stalking by, with pale affright 
The guests arose, an emblem of the night, 
Saw the full morning dim the candle light : 



113 

They ran to seize their sticks, their hats, and 

gloves, 
But day. comes .-on, and sad mistakes it proves : 
Tarno put Tippo's hat upon his head, 
It soon went off, and with the wind it fled ; 
A hat for the impetuous Tarno big, 
Though chief of half the nation, and a Whig, 

Iacho's head struck Rino in the breast, 
The use of liquor had benumbed its test ; 
But honest Rino took him by the arm, 
To keep the election oracle from harm. 

Brasso went out, unshaken, undismayed. 
He sat his time, was not of smoke afraid; 
A happy boldness and imposing form 
May serve to stem the fury of a storm : 

H 



114 

Tippo, ashamed and vexed that he was there,. 
Rose from the table with an angry stare ; 
Complained to good Aurelian of the feast, 
That made them all be laughed at by the beast. 
He that so skilfully could rule the state, 
And give the law with vigour in debate, 
Qould give the gloss of right to what is wrong, 
With strong persuasion's glow upon his tongue,, 
This man was laughed at by the devil's art, 
Who knew the only window of his heart. 

Great, happy Britain, regent of the sea. 
Queen of the ocean, I return to thee ; 
Long may thy virtues and thy laws upstand 
Against the selfish vices of the land. 

FINIS. 






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